Shades and Echoes
by auberus11
Summary: AU. Duncan meets Adam Pierson a bit earlier than he did in the show, and promptly takes the 'new' Immortal under his wing. *NEW CHAPTER UP*
1. Chapter 1

**December 15, 1986**

"I call," Joe said, tossing a five-dollar bill onto the table in front of him. "Don?"

"With _this_ hand?" Don Salzer shook his head, and his cards followed Joe's money onto the table. Both men turned to the third player.

"Adam?" Joe prompted.

Adam Pierson was sprawled improbably in one of Shakespeare and Company's uncomfortable wooden chairs. A heap of crumpled bills on the table in front of him attested to either his skills as a player, or to an extraordinary run of luck. Joe had never played poker with him before and hadn't been expecting much of a challenge. As a result, he was nearly seventy dollars poorer than he'd been at the start of the evening. Adam had turned out to have one of the best poker faces Joe had ever seen, as well as a nearly uncanny ability to read his opponents.

"I suppose you'd like to see my cards," Adam said, clearly trying not to grin. Away from the poker table, the kid was an open book.

"Sometime this century," Joe agreed, then half-wished he hadn't, as Adam lay three queens and two fours face-up on the table.

"Jesus, Adam," he said. "If I'd known you could play like this, I think I'd have backed out." He aimed a mock-glare at Don. "Thanks for the warning, buddy."

"You wouldn't have believed me anyway," Don said, smirking.

"It's really not that difficult," Adam shrugged.

"Yeah, yeah." Joe rolled his eyes. "You're a genius. I hear enough of that from Don, thank you."

"Aw, Don, you brag about me? I'm touched."

"In the head," Don snorted. "Shut up and deal the cards, smart ass." He said it affectionately, though, and Adam's sudden smile was as surprised as it was warm.

"It's a journal," Don said later. The three of them were relaxing over beer, courtesy of Adam, and had closed the shop and moved to the more comfortable chairs in the office. "I'm almost certain that it's one of Methos'."

"Those damned things turn up in the most random places," Adam said bitterly.

"Anyway," Don said, raising an eyebrow at Adam, who subsided, "I can't go myself. I've got my section report due the day of the auction, so I'm sending Adam." He looked over at Joe. "I want you to go with him."

"What?" Joe and Adam demanded.

"He's less suited for fieldwork than anyone I've ever met," Don continued, "and there are bound to be some Immortals there. I'd be a lot happier if you'd go along and watch his back."

"_That_ auction," Joe said, understanding. Poker face or no, he wouldn't have wanted to send Adam to that auction alone either.

Adam looked distinctly put out, and there was an unaccustomed edge to his voice when he said, "You didn't tell me that. Who's going to be there?"

"They're auctioning off the duFresne estate," Don said. "The family collected museum pieces for centuries. Duncan MacLeod and Amanda Darrieux have already reserved rooms at the Ritz. Hugh Fitzcairn might be coming as well, and I'd be surprised if the deValicourts missed it; they were friends with one of the duFresnes sometime in the fifteenth century."

Adam's expression was unreadable. Joe couldn't help feeling sorry for the kid. He'd only been with the Watchers for about two years -- two years that he'd spent entirely in Research. The idea of being around four or five Immortals must have been spooking the hell out of him.

"Hey, it'll be all right," Joe told him. "None of those guys is in the habit of going after mortals. You won't even have to talk to them."

Adam smiled at that, but it was a grim expression, and he was distracted for the rest of the day.

* * *

**December 18, 1986**

Adam's jeans and sweater weren't exactly business attire, but after one look at his expression, Joe decided to let it be. Still, the kid seemed to relax after a few minutes, and by the time they pulled up to the auction house, he was back to normal. He paused at the top of the steps and took a deep breath, then squared his shoulders and opened the door, holding it open for Joe before following him inside.

They were a good fifteen minutes early, and the potential buyers were just beginning to seat themselves. Most of them were in suits and ties, but Adam's casual clothes didn't stand out quite as much as Joe had feared they would.

They picked up a pair of catalogs and made their way to a mostly empty row of seats. Adam took his coat off, and was draping it over the back of his chair when he suddenly winced and put a hand to his head.

"You all right?" Joe asked.

"Fine," Adam said. He waved a hand as if to physically brush aside Joe's concern, and sank heavily into his chair. Joe frowned, but let it slide in favor of looking around the room to see if any of the expected Immortals had arrived -- and yes, there was Duncan MacLeod, with Amanda on his arm and Hugh Fitzcairn bringing up the rear. They were looking in his direction, Joe realized, and jerked his eyes away before he could get caught staring.

"MacLeod's here," he said quietly.

"Wonderful," Adam muttered. He still had one hand pressed to his temple.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Joe asked again.

Adam smiled at him, though the expression looked forced. "Really, Joe. I'm all right. I've just got a bit of a headache." He leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Joe risked another glance over his shoulder. MacLeod, Amanda, and Fitzcairn were still staring in their direction -- staring at Adam, Joe realized. He looked from Adam to MacLeod's speculative expression, then back at Adam again. At Adam, who was shaking his head slightly, as if to clear it.

_You've got to be kidding__ me_, Joe thought, but he'd seen that look on Immortal faces too many times to mistake it for anything else. Another glance at Adam's oblivious, if pained, expression almost made him wonder if he was imagining things -- until Duncan MacLeod made his way through the crowd to loom over them. He looked down at Adam, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he said.

* * *

_Author's Notes: This plotbunny was eating me alive. Unbeta'd, so any mistakes are my own. As always, feedback rocks my world._  



	2. Chapter 2

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Duncan said, staring down at the other Immortal. The young man cast a panicked look at his companion before turning wide, apprehensive eyes on Duncan.

"Er -- good for you?" he hazarded. 

Duncan frowned. From the lad's reaction to his presence, he'd assumed that he was dealing with a new Immortal, one who had no idea what he was -- but the fear in the man's eyes and the tension in his frame seemed to indicate that he knew _something_. His friend, too, was decidedly tense -- and _he_ was definitely mortal.

"What's your name, lad?" he asked, gentling his tone a little bit.

"Adam," was the response. "Adam Pierson."

"You and I need to talk," Duncan told him.

"Oh, no," Pierson said firmly. "No, we certainly don't." He settled himself more firmly into his seat.

"Adam," his friend said quietly, "I think maybe you should go with him." Pierson cast an anguished glance in his direction, and shook his head.

"_Adam_," the older man repeated. 

It seemed to do the trick. Pierson got to his feet, albeit reluctantly, and followed Duncan to a relatively secluded corner of the room. Fitz and Amanda sent curious looks in their direction, but Duncan waved them off. The lad was shaken enough -- there was no sense in making it worse by compounding the number of Immortals in what was always a complicated conversation.

They stopped just in front of one of the large windows. Pierson leaned heavily on the wall next to it, his face pale and his eyes wide. Duncan looked him over. He was almost ridiculously young; twenty-four, perhaps, or twenty-five, and his slender build and unassuming posture made it unlikely that he had any sort of martial arts training on which to base... well, anything.

"Do you know what you are?" Duncan asked him, and the sick, miserable expression on the man's face was confirmation that Duncan wouldn't have to explain either Immortals or the Game.

"Who's your teacher?" he asked. The lad was obviously too young to be on his own, especially if he didn't know to look for another Immortal when he felt their presence. 

His next words confirmed Duncan's worst suspicions.

"I don't have one." His voice was tight with strain. "Look, are you sure this isn't some kind of mistake?" He sounded half-desperate, his British accent becoming more pronounced as his voice rose half an octave.

"It's no mistake," Duncan told him. The puzzle that was Adam Pierson became more interesting by the second. Clearly, the young man knew about Immortals -- had known before Duncan walked up to him. However, it was becoming just as obvious that he hadn't known _he_ was Immortal -- and that was more than a little disturbing.

"You already knew about us," he said, making it clear from his tone of voice that it wasn't a question. Pierson flinched.

"Ye-s," he said, drawing the word out as if reluctant to say it. "But I never thought -- I _knew_ my parents!" His voice shook slightly. "If I'd been adopted -- the paperwork should have been in their things. Shouldn't it?" Hazel eyes fixed pleadingly on Duncan's face for a moment; then Pierson looked away, running one hand through already messy dark hair. "_Christ_," he said, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, his expression was that of a man barely holding onto his self control.

Duncan tried to imagine what it must feel like to know about the Game and then suddenly find that one had been thrown into it, and couldn't. The lad was quite clearly on the verge of panicking, and Duncan really couldn't blame him.

"Here, now," he said. "Take a deep breath." Pierson obeyed, his eyes fluttering shut again as he leaned his head back against the wall. 

"I thought it was just a bloody headache," he said quietly.

"How did you not notice that you'd died?" Duncan asked. 

"I don't know." His eyes snapped open; he looked defensive, and more than a little frightened. "I cracked my head at the shop last week -- but I was only out for a few minutes. I didn't even have much of a headache afterwards..." His voice trailed off, and he ran a hand through his hair again, looking at the floor as he scuffed one booted foot across it.

"You'll need a teacher," Duncan said.

"No," Pierson said, shaking his head again. "I know what I am now --"

Duncan cut him off. "Do you know how to use a sword?" When Pierson's eyes fell, Duncan nodded. "I didn't think so." He reached into his pocket and fished out a card, jotting down the barge's address before handing it to him. "Come by tomorrow, and I'll get you started." When Adam opened his mouth to protest, Duncan cut him off again.

"If you don't show up, I _will_ come looking for you." The lad's reaction to his sudden realization showed real courage. It would be a shame to lose him to a headhunter simply because he didn't want to play the Game.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Methos didn't go back to his seat right away. Joe was bright enough to have drawn the appropriate conclusions from the little scene that had just played out, and escaping to think was exactly the sort of thing that Adam Pierson would do at this juncture. Joe would be prevented from following after him by the necessity of bidding on the journal that was his entire reason for being at the bloody auction in the first place, and Duncan MacLeod would trust his friends not to go after a brand new Immortal. Methos shook his head. The Highlander was exactly as Darius had described him -- noble, virtuous, and true.

_And honourable enough to get himself killed in a hurry. You neglected to mention that part, old friend._

The priest hadn't mentioned MacLeod's looks, either. The man was darkly handsome, vital in a way that reminded Methos of some of the movie stars he'd known in the 1930's, and the hint of stubbornness about his mouth was as tempting as it was dangerous. The thought of getting close to him was beyond appealing -- but it would never work. They knew too many of the same people, including -- _ah, right__ on time_, Methos thought, as an elegantly-dressed female form stepped around the corner and stopped, blocking his path.

"Hello," he said pleasantly, then switched to the French of her mortal life, in case there was anyone in earshot. "Don't you dare mention my name. I'm going by 'Adam', these days."

She raised one exquisite eyebrow at him.

"So I heard. What sort of game do you think you're playing with Duncan? He's a friend, and I won't stand by and watch him get hurt."

"It's not aimed at him," Methos said irritably.

"Oh, really? Because he just finished telling me all about the brand-new Immortal he's going to be taking on as a student."

Methos grimaced. "That's _not_ going to happen. He's probably the sort who believes in the benefits of a good, bracing run at some ungodly hour of every morning."

Amanda laughed. "Oh, you _do_ know him, then."

"No," Methos said sourly, "I'm just very old and wise."

"You'd better be. Duncan's difficult to distract when he thinks he's doing the right thing."

"I'm not planning on distracting him; I'm planning on avoiding him."

She studied him carefully. "This really isn't aimed at him, is it? What's going on, old man?"

He looked back at her, weighing his options. None of them were particularly good ones. Refusing to tell her would only prompt her to investigate on her own, and if there was one thing that Methos had learned over the years, it was that trouble followed Amanda about as if it were her best friend. On the other hand, she'd never betrayed her knowledge of his existence to anyone, and she'd kept silent about Rebecca's stone for centuries now. Methos made up his mind.

"I'm playing researcher for a group of mortals. They know about us, but they don't know about _me_, and finding out would make them very unhappy."

"Mortals?" Amanda looked appalled, which was what Methos had been afraid of. "And they know what we are?"

"They're not a threat," Methos told her. "They've been around for millenia. Rebecca knows about them."

"Oh, _really_," she said. "What, exactly, do they _do_?"

"They watch us," Methos said. "They write down what we do. We may be Immortal, but that doesn't mean we deserve to be forgotten by history."

Her eyes softened. "You started them doing it, didn't you?" she asked, and didn't wait for him to answer. "Sometimes you're as altruistic as Darius." She ignored his scowl. "I suppose you want me to play along with your little game?"

"_And_ keep your mouth shut about my group of mortals. You do owe me one," he pointed out, starting to relax a little. Her tone of voice had indicated a willingness to cooperate, and her pout confirmed it. Amanda never pouted when things were serious.

"Damn. I'd hoped you'd forgotten about Madrid."

"My dear Amanda," Methos said, lifting an eyebrow of his own, "thanks entirely to you, I was kidnapped, shot, arrested, kidnapped again, taken on board a pirate ship, chained to an oar for nearly three months, forced to ransom myself, arrested for a second time, and very nearly hanged. In public. I will _never_ forget about Madrid, and if you rat me out, I'll tell Rebecca all about it."

"All right," she sighed. "I'll play along." Suddenly, she smiled. It was not, Methos reflected, a particularly reassuring expression. "I'll even keep playing along after Duncan drags you kicking and screaming into his little clan."

Methos scowled at her. "Oh, bugger off, would you?" Her laughter followed him down the hall as he stalked away.

* * *

"What the hell just happened? " Joe asked, as Adam came up to him in the alcove after the auction. The kid was pale and visibly shaken, and the look he directed at Joe was wary; stand-offish in a way that Joe had never seen from him before, even during the long stress of last year's Gathering scare. The short laugh that escaped his lips had more hysteria in it than humour. 

"Guess," he said, and laughed again. "Apparently I hit my head a little harder than I realized when I fell off that ladder last week."

"Jesus _Christ_."

"Quite," Adam said. He opened the door for Joe, and the two of them went out into the cold. Adam pulled his coat more tightly around himself. "Your Highlander's offered to teach me. He's bloody well insisting, actually, and I don't think I'm going to be able to put him off."

"You don't _want_ to," Joe said, appalled by this turn in the conversation. "He's one of the best out there -- he learned from _Connor MacLeod_, for God's sake."

"I know who his teacher was," Adam snapped, then slumped. "Sorry."

"Don't sweat it," Joe reassured him. "I know I'd be edgy if I were in your shoes." This time, Adam's laugh had a ring of genuine humour to it.

"That's an understatement," he muttered, then rubbed at his eyes. "Oh, god; I'm going to have to tell the higher-ups." They ducked inside the car, and Joe started the engine. Adam shot him a worried glance. "Are they -- what will they do to me, Joe?"

He looked terribly young, and very afraid. Joe couldn't help feeling bad for him. He _liked_ Adam, and despite the occasional streak of unconscious and manipulative arrogance that the kid displayed every so often, he was no match for the company he'd been unceremoniously thrust into. Add in the paranoia that was currently sweeping through the ranks of the Watchers, and Adam was in a genuinely ugly situation. There were some idiots, Joe reflected, who might not believe that Adam's recent death had been his first one, despite the efficiency of the background checks run on all potential recruits -- and they were the sort who might well take it upon themselves to seal up any breach of security, no matter who got in their way. The idea of Adam on his knees before a Watcher hit squad suddenly flashed before Joe's eyes. It took him a minute to realize that his knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel.

"They won't do anything," Joe said, surprising even himself with the conviction in his voice, "because I'm not gonna tell them about you." He glanced over at Adam to be sure that the kid believed him -- and apparently he did, because he was staring at Joe, the shock on his face deeper even than it had been when Duncan MacLeod walked up and introduced himself.

"You really mean that," he said softly, and the suddenly penetrating look in his eyes made the hair stand up on the back of Joe's neck. There was _more_ to Adam than usual, and the weight of his regard hammered home to Joe for the first time that little Adam was now an Immortal.

_And here I thought I'd have to see him swinging a sword around before it really hit me_. Then Adam shifted a little, looked down, and the moment was gone. _Immortal or not, he's still the hopelessly brilliant twenty-five year old I picked up this morning_.

"You'll have to tell Don," Joe said. Adam winced. "He won't tell anyone," Joe pressed, "but he's not stupid. He'll figure it out."

Adam flicked him an unreadable glance. "You don't think I could keep up the charade?"

"I think you'll get all wrapped up in one of those books of yours and slip up, yeah," Joe said, and Adam sighed.

"Bloody hell. All right. It can only make things easier."

* * *

Author's Notes: Plot-related stuff coming up. Feedback? Is love. 


	4. Chapter 4

"Yeah, right," Don said, when Joe had finished filling him in. "I don't care which one of you jokers came up with this, but it isn't funny." He brushed past Joe and up the stairs, calling for Adam as he went. Joe followed him, and took a certain pleasure at seeing him stop abruptly at the sight of Adam's face.

"Aw, hell," Don said, and crossed the remaining space between them to put a hand on Adam's shoulder. "It's gonna be okay." Joe watched as Adam gave Don the same curiously piercing look he'd worn when Joe had promised to keep silent. Don didn't seem phased by it; just squeezed Adam's shoulder and sat down next to him at the table. Joe went over and joined them, grateful for the chance to sit down. It had been a long day.

"So," Don said after a minute, "Joe says that Duncan MacLeod's offered to teach you." Adam nodded, and Don looked at him sternly. "You're going to take him up on his offer."

"Oh, no," Adam said. "No way. I'm not getting anywhere near that --" He stopped speaking abruptly, and settled for shaking his head. "It's not happening, Don."

"Yes, it is," Don said implacably. "You've got no guarantee that the next Immortal you come across won't take your head -- and even if they did offer to teach you, you'd still be better off with MacLeod. Don't be stupid, Adam."

"Maybe I don't want to learn how to use a sword," Adam fired back, sitting up straight in his seat. The stricken look on Don's face, though, seemed to cut his anger out from under him. His shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes, as if trying to keep them from seeing the emotions playing out beneath his lids.

"All right," he said finally, opening his eyes. He sounded infinitely weary. "I'll go play warrior-prince with the bloody Highlander." He shook his head. "I need a beer."

* * *

Joe and Don were reluctant to let Methos go off by himself. He finally gave in and let Don drive him home, then waited until he'd seen Don's tail-lights disappear into the distance before pulling his coat back on and slipping out the back door. He didn't think he was being followed, but a little extra paranoia never hurt anyone. 

The night air was chilly, and Methos pulled his coat more closely around himself as he made his way down the nearly-empty streets of Paris. His breath was coming in white clouds and the wind felt like a blade on the exposed skin of his face, so his step was quicker than usual. He soon found himself in the nave of St. Joseph's, with Darius' familiar Quickening ringing in his head like church bells.

After a few minutes, the priest himself made an appearance, his eyebrows lifting in surprise when he saw the identity of his late-night visitor.

"Adam? What are you doing here?" He beckoned Methos back to his private office. Methos followed him silently, and remained quiet until the door was closed. Six inches of cork set into the walls, and a soundproof door that had been ahead of its time when Methos helped install it two hundred years earlier, helped to keep the office safe from prying Watchers -- as did Darius' regular sweeps for recording devices. There was some Immortal business that not even the Watchers needed to know about, and Darius had a hand in most of it. Methos placed his own existence firmly in that category.

"I didn't expect to see you again for at least another twenty years," Darius remarked. He went to the elegant cabinet at the back of the room and removed a bottle of brandy and two glasses, while Methos settled himself into an overstuffed armchair that looked like a refugee from the Victorian era.

"Something came up," he admitted, taking the glass of brandy from Darius. "I ran into Duncan MacLeod today."

"Did you?" Darius murmured. "What did you think of him, then?"

Methos regarded the brandy in his glass, swirling it thoughtfully before taking a sip. "Honestly? I think he's an honourable fool, just like his cousin."

"And yet Connor managed to dispatch the Kurgan."

Methos snorted. "The Kurgan. I'd be more impressed if he'd manage to take out Kronos when they crossed paths twenty years ago." The bogeyman status that the Kurgan had achieved among younger Immortals had been a source of great amusement to Methos. The man was a primitive, stuck in the past and easily dispatched with a gun and a sword, had anyone ruthless enough been interested in doing so.

"Relieved, as well," Darius pointed out. Methos acknowledged the hit with a tilt of his head. "And what did my honourable fool make of you?"

"Of me?" Methos lifted one sardonic eyebrow. "You know me better than that. He met Adam Pierson, painfully new Immortal, and is now determined to teach and protect the poor bastard."

"Methos," Darius said disapprovingly.

"Well, I had a bloody Watcher in tow, didn't I?" Over several more glasses of brandy, he explained the whole complicated mess to his friend. Darius listened solemnly enough, but Methos could see the gleam of amusement in his eyes, particularly when MacLeod's tendencies towards large doses of healthy exercise was mentioned.

"At least Amanda has promised to cooperate," Darius remarked, once Methos had finished his multi-lingual diatribe against bloody interfering Boy Scouts and the concepts of chivalry and honour, both of which he roundly condemned as archaic and obsolete codes of conduct fit only for the hopelessly stupid.

"True," Methos said pensively, "though I get the feeling that she's going to enjoy herself even more than you will."

"I will admit," Darius said -- and there was that damned smirk of his -- "that seeing you caught up in your own plots is... amusing. Particularly as you appear to be in no real danger."

"Ha, bloody ha," Methos responded, and got his revenge by finishing off the rest of the brandy.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Thanks so much to everyone who took the time to leave feedback. You guys rock._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_December 19, 1986_

Methos didn't get up until mid-afternoon, and when he did it was only because his slumber was disturbed by the presence of another Immortal. The remnants of Darius' good brandy were still clinging to his thoughts and making his head pound. He grabbed his Ivanhoe out of pure instinct; then a knock at his door was followed by the raised voice of Duncan MacLeod.

"Adam?"

"Give me a minute," he called, and tucked his sword back under his bed. Pulling on a bathrobe, he made his way to the door, and fixed the Highlander with Adam Pierson's fiercest glare. The Scot was impervious -- and he was, to Methos' dismay, clad in a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. _And most likely weaponless to boot_, Methos thought, trying not to shake his head in amazement.

"Just getting up?" MacLeod asked, raising both eyebrows at Methos' attire.

"I was sleeping, actually," Methos snapped, wishing that he could afford to give MacLeod a taste of what he'd _actually_ rousted out of bed. "It's my day off. I was planning on coming by later -- _after I woke up_."

Predictably, Adam Pierson in a snit did nothing to dent the Highlander's oppressively cheerful demeanor.

"Well, then it's a good thing I stopped by, isn't it?" he asked. "The daylight doesn't last long this time of year, and it's not safe to run in the dark."

"I don't run," Methos said flatly, turning away from the door and going back down the stairs. MacLeod followed him.

"You're going to start," he said. Methos ignored him in favor of pulling a pair of jeans and a sweater out of the dresser, then frowned. He didn't want the Highlander poking around in his things while he changed; on the other hand, giving MacLeod a good look at his physique might lead to questions as to how bookish Adam Pierson had developed that sort of musculature.

"You're going to need sweatpants. And a t-shirt," MacLeod said from behind him.

Methos swore silently at him in three different languages, and pulled the requisite clothing out of another drawer.

"It's the middle of December!" he protested. "It's freezing cold outside."

"It'll toughen you up," MacLeod said, showing no signs of remorse for his unholy state of exuberance. For what felt like the hundredth time, Methos wished that he'd had the sense to disappear before the auction. _Why didn't I just pretend I was sick? _

Throwing a bitter glare at MacLeod -- it bounced off of him, of course -- Methos retreated to the bathroom, trusting the Highlander's innate courtesy to keep him from poking around where he shouldn't.

When he emerged a few minutes later, clad in sweatpants and t-shirt and feeling somewhat closer to human, MacLeod was examining the titles on his bookshelves with raised eyebrows.

"You've got pretty eclectic tastes," MacLeod said, with a gesture at a shelf that Methos knew contained two copies of Demosthenes' Exordia, both in various stages of disrepair and each in a different language (French and Russian), a smattering of first edition British mysteries from the 1920's, a German translation of Juvenal's Satires, two Stephen King novels and several volumes of Romantic poetry, in addition to a handful of modern thrillers with absolutely no redeeming literary value whatsoever. Methos refused to apologize for them, and took great pleasure in shelving the worst of them next to Byron's more pretentious works.

"There are a lot of things worth reading in this world," he commented mildly, glad that his paranoia about being caught out by the Watchers had largely kept him from bringing any of his older and more difficult to explain possessions along to furnish this flat. MacLeod, for his part, seemed to have just been making conversation. He ran a critical eye over Methos' now-clad form and nodded.

"That should do. Do you have decent running shoes?"

"Yes," Methos sighed.

"Good," MacLeod said. "It's three miles from here to the barge."

* * *

The Highlander set an easy pace at first, obviously heartened by the fact that Methos at least knew how to stretch properly. After a few hundred yards, the worst of the stiffness had worked itself out of Methos' legs and shoulders and he settled in to run the Highlander into the ground, hoping to at least keep the man from patronizing him unbearably. Running was a good, non-aggressive way of proving that he was physically fit, and might cut out some of the mind-numbingly boring drills that he just knew the Highlander was going to inflict on him _ad nauseam_. 

"I thought you didn't run," MacLeod said. That he was still able to talk so easily was irritating; still, his breath was coming a little bit faster.

_Good_, Methos though viciously, and increased his pace again.

"I don't _like_ to run," he said, when the Highlander had caught up to him once more. "Especially after a night of drinking. I did enough of that in college." There, that was a good explanation for an un-Pierson-like level of physical fitness, and never mind that Methos had actually spent his time at St. Aidan's immersed in beer and old books.

"Long-distance?" MacLeod asked. Methos nodded and picked up the pace again; after that, neither of them had breath for conversation, and he could forget about the crawling nervousness along the back of his neck that came from going virtually unarmed. A single gun was _not_ enough.

* * *

"You were drinking last night?" Duncan asked, once the two of them had stopped outside the barge to catch their breath. He was more than a little impressed by Adam's speed and endurance -- it would make teaching him easier, and the edge of competitiveness the lad had shown was a hopeful sign -- but couldn't help the disapproval he felt at the idea of the younger Immortal out by himself at all, let alone while intoxicated. Too many Immortals spent too much time in Paris. 

"Yes, well, I had a bit of a rough day yesterday, if you recall," Adam said. "Much more excitement than I'm used to."

"What _do_ you do for a living?" Duncan asked curiously. _And does it have anything to do with how you knew about Immortals before you became one?_ Adam had been too upset yesterday to press forward with uncomfortable questions, but Duncan wasn't about to forget that the lad hadn't needed to be told of his true nature.

"I'm a doctoral candidate," Adam said, pulling one arm over his head and down to stretch out the muscles. "At the Sorbonne. Classical studies. I do a bit of research for a private firm to keep myself in beer and books."

"Oh?" Duncan finished stretching and moved towards the barge. "What sort of research?"

"Translations, mostly." Adam followed him, both of them stopping as the feel of two Immortal presences washed over them. Duncan bit back a groan of dismay; Adam put a hand to his head and swayed for a minute.

"You'll get used to it eventually," Duncan said. "It's worse than usual because you're feeling two of them."

"_Two_?" Adam's eyebrows lifted. "They're not going to try and take my head, are they?"

"No," Duncan said, "though I may be tempted to take theirs." He pushed open the door and glared impartially at Fitzcairn and Amanda, both of whom were looking up at him with feigned innocence writ large on their faces.

"Duncan," Amanda said, rising from the sofa and coming to his side. "Who's your friend?"

"Really, Amanda," Fitz said. "It's the lad we saw at the auction yesterday. Are you getting sloppy in your old age, then?" He nodded genially at Adam from his place in the most comfortable chair. "Hugh Fitzcairn."

"Adam Pierson."

"And this," Duncan said, "is Amanda."

"Oh, the pleasure's _all_ mine," Amanda said, giving Adam her most sultry look along with her hand.

"Charmed," Adam said dryly, shaking her hand. He looked... amused, which was not the normal male reaction to Amanda, but which Duncan found infinitely preferable to dealing with the sort of response she usually engendered. For some reason, the thought of watching Adam falling all over Amanda was a distinctly unpleasant one.

"So, Adam," Amanda purred, "what were you doing before Duncan scooped you up?" She'd apparently taken Adam's indifference personally; there was a wicked gleam in her eyes, and Duncan decided to cut her off at the pass before she said or did something inappropriate.

"That's enough," he said firmly, and pushed her gently in the direction of the couch. "Adam and I have some work to do."

Adam let out a heartfelt groan. "Have a heart, MacLeod," he said. "I just ran three miles in the freezing cold."

"And now you're going to come up on deck and practice in it," Duncan said mercilessly.

"I want to watch," Amanda said. Duncan shot her a suspicious look, and she gave him her most charming smile in return.

"What? It never hurts to go over the basics again." The glare that Adam leveled at her was truly venomous, but she seemed unconcerned. "Besides, I have a warm coat with me."

"Fine," Duncan said. "But no commentary." He crossed the barge to the display of swords mounted on the far wall. "Adam?"

Adam followed him reluctantly. Duncan took down a _schiavona_ that he'd picked up at an estate auction some two centuries earlier and held it out to him hilt-first. Adam froze, staring at Duncan with a stunned, astounded expression on his face for a long moment before reaching over and taking the sword. Shaking his head slightly, he stepped back out of range and swung the weapon about a time or two, his stance making it painfully obvious that he'd never held a blade before in his life. Fitz diplomatically busied himself with refilling his pipe, but Amanda was smirking at Adam from across the room.

"You can stay down here after all," Duncan told her, exasperated, and herded Adam out onto the deck. As he closed the door, he could hear Fitz chuckling.

* * *

_Author's Notes: A _schiavona _is a type of sword that became popular in Italy during the 16th and 17th centuries. It's a true broadsword; the length is something in the neighborhood of 40 inches, and it weighs a little over a kilogram -- at least, according to the Wikipedia article that I got the information from. Sadly, arms and armour is not one of my specialties._

_ As always, thanks awfully to everyone who's taken the time to leave feedback. You guys are awesome._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

By the time MacLeod finally called a halt for the day, Methos had gone past irritated and out the other side into resignation. They'd spent nearly two hours on the most basic elements of swordplay; on things like form and posture that Methos no longer remembered learning. Pretending total ignorance was much more difficult than pretending to some knowledge, and despite his considerable skill at downplaying his own abilities, he'd been hard-pressed to maintain Adam Pierson's innate clumsiness. His body seemed to want to adjust automatically to the weight of the blade, and the distraction of the Highlander's presence didn't help matters. 

What did help was that Methos' blade work had been learned long before swordplay became an art. The formal duels that had been such a part of MacLeod's training had played no part in his, and though he'd learned the styles as they'd developed, he rarely fell back on them unconsciously. Instead he fell back on older patterns of fighting, ones that newer Immortals failed to recognize as a discipline because the style was so different from any they'd learned.

As far as Methos was concerned, it was an excellent way to get himself underestimated, and it worked as well with the Highlander as it had with countless other - and less fortunate - Immortals. He'd slipped up several times, had let his mind wander and his body slide easily into old rhythms -- and the Highlander had patiently corrected his stance, made him straighten his left arm without realizing that Methos had bent said arm unconsciously because he'd carried a shield longer than MacLeod had carried a blade.

"You think too much," MacLeod said. Methos looked up to see that the Highlander was only a foot or so away.

"I'm sorry?" Methos asked, distracted all over again by the man's nearness.

"You think too much," MacLeod repeated. "You've got a good bit of natural talent, and you move well, but when you try and think your way through what you're doing, you stiffen up. You have to be able to do it without thought." He frowned. "Have you ever done any martial arts?"

Methos shook his head. "Not my sort of thing, I'm afraid," he demurred. "I do a bit of yoga every now and then."

"Yoga?" MacLeod's tone of voice made it clear that yoga was not an acceptable substitute. "How do you feel about kendo?"

* * *

Adam gratefully took Duncan up on his suggestion of a shower, and retreated to the bathroom with the proffered towel and change of clothes.

"What d'you think?" Fitz asked idly, lifting his head from the pipe he'd been trying to light.

"Don't smoke that in here," Duncan said. "What do I think?" He shrugged. "Hard to say. He knew about Immortals before he learned that he was one, and I don't think he quite believes it yet." 

"He what?" Fitz asked, sitting up straight. "He isn't one of those Watcher chaps, is he?"

"Those what?" Duncan asked, while Amanda stared at Fitz with her mouth open.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed them," Fitz said, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Neither of you?" he continued, with a glance at Amanda. "My, my. Maybe I shouldn't say anything after all." He started to grin.

"_Fitz_," Duncan growled. Amanda's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What are you talking about?"

"The Watchers, old boy," Fitz said, deliberately nonchalant. "I really can't believe you haven't noticed them by now." Duncan wondered if Fitz would be more forthcoming after an enforced dip in the Seine, and something of his thoughts must have shown in his face, because Fitz dropped the silly-ass act and explained. "They're a group of mortals who know what we are. They follow us around, write down what we do and who we kill -- it all strikes me as a bit ridiculous, to be honest, but there you have it."

"A whole group of them?" Duncan asked, appalled. The idea that a bunch of mortals not only knew what he was, but where he was and how to kill him, was one of the most deeply frightening things he'd ever heard.

"Mm-hm," Fitz nodded, apparently oblivious to the tension suddenly gripping Duncan's body. "They're bloody secretive about the whole thing, too. If they find out that your little Adam is newly Immortal..." He drew one finger across his throat -- then shrugged. "Or maybe not. They're sworn never to interfere with the Game, so they might just kick him out."

Duncan muttered a curse and sat down on the couch. Amanda scowled at Fitz.

"If they're so secretive, how did _you_ find out about them?" she demanded.

Fitz looked like a cat who'd gotten loose in an aviary. "Because, my girl, I seduced some of them," he said. "Four of them, to be precise. They've all got this bloody distinctive tattoo on their left wrists, and after I'd seen three of them inside a century, and on women, I started asking questions." His smug expression was infuriating. "There aren't many women who can resist the Fitzcairn charm, and Anna-Maria was no exception."

"But why?" Duncan asked, ignoring Amanda's muttered threats against Fitz's continued good health. "Do they hunt us?"

"God, no." Fitz looked appalled. "They're historians. Scholars, and of course they're bloody mad. All scholars are. From what I can gather, they're only interested in recording our actions. They've been doing it for millenia. I suppose they think it might be important, once the Gathering's over."

The worst of the tension eased inside Duncan. "And you think Adam might be one of them?"

"It stands to reason," Fitz said. "We ran into him at the duFresne auction, and I can think of all number of reasons why an organization interested in Immortal history would have sent him there."

Duncan nodded, remembering the strange behavior of Adam's friend, and the resigned, worried expression on Adam's face when he'd realized his true nature. 

"He should have said something," he muttered.

"Please," Fitz snorted. "He's probably scared out of his wits -- and not just of you." He cut off as the bathroom door swung open, letting clouds of steam escape into the main area of the barge. A half-second later, Adam emerged. His wet hair was sticking to his face, and Duncan's jeans and sweater, both of which were a size or two too large, made him look even younger than he really was. He stopped dead when he noticed the tension in the room.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"I don't know," Duncan said. He had no wish to frighten the lad, but he had to know the truth. "Can I see your left wrist?"

Adam froze, his face suddenly shuttered and unreadable. "Excuse me?" he said.

"I know about the Watchers," Duncan said gently.

"How the --" Adam's gaze shot to Amanda, his eyes surprisingly hard.

"I told him," Fitz said mildly. Usually, Duncan couldn't help wishing that the man would keep his comments to himself, but this time, he was grateful for Fitz's interjection. Adam turned to look at Fitz, his eyes still sharp but no longer angry.

"You?" he asked, clearly surprised. "How did you find out about them?"

Fitz explained. As he did, a grin crept over Adam's face, and the tension of the last few minutes seemed to evaporate into thin air.

"No wonder your chronicles are always so complimentary," Adam said finally, shaking his head in amusement. "The higher-ups really ought to have known better."

"Whom did you watch?" Duncan asked. Whoever it was had to have been in a world of their own to have failed to notice a pre-Immortal following them about.

"Me?" Adam looked surprised. "No one. I'm crap at field work. What I told you earlier was true -- I'm just a researcher."

"Well, who do you research, then?" Amanda asked. Adam smiled blandly at her.

"Methos," he said. 

Amanda made a strange choking sound.

"Methos is a myth," Duncan protested. "He's not real. Amanda, would you go and get a glass of water!"

"I'm fine," she spluttered. "Really. And Methos isn't a myth, darling." For a moment, he thought she would start choking again, but she managed to control herself. "He and Rebecca have been friends for longer than I've been alive."

"Methos," Duncan repeated. "As in, the five-thousand year old man? Come _on_, Amanda -- do you really expect me to believe that?"

"It's true," she protested. "Adam, back me up."

Adam was tight-lipped with annoyance, but he nodded anyway. "It's true. Of course, no one's heard from him in centuries. We're not even certain that he's still alive." He glared at Amanda, and she subsided back into her chair.

"And the man with you at the auction?"

"Spotted that, did you?" Adam asked. He still seemed irritated, and was pointedly avoiding looking at Amanda. "Yes, he's a Watcher as well."

"I can't believe you'd never spotted them before," Fitz said, shaking his head.

* * *

Author's Notes: First, a huge thank you to everyone who reviewed. Hopefully, some of your questions were answered in this chapter. I meant to post it yesterday, but had computer issues. As always, feedback is love.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Don Salzer spent his entire day at _Le Blues Bar_, immersed in Duncan MacLeod's chronicles.

"You don't need to do that," Joe said once. "I've been watching the guy for a while, and he's really is as stand-up as his reputation makes him out to be." Don ignored him, and reached for another journal. Last night, he'd been half-tempted to go over to MacLeod's and _demand_ that the take Adam's safety seriously. Knowing that to be impossible, he'd settled for reading over the major points of the man's life. Over the past year and a half, Adam had somehow managed to become almost a son to him. If Duncan MacLeod was going to teach Adam, Don wanted to know everything about the man.

By seven thirty he'd managed to cover the salient points of MacLeod's history and was feeling reassured. Based on his chronicles, the Highlander could be trusted to do his absolute best by Adam. _He might even turn out an expert swordsman in the process. _Don shook his head at the idea. Despite his slender frame, Adam was almost terminally clumsy -- _had_ been terminally clumsy, Don reflected. He'd never before heard of an Immortal meeting their first death at the hands of a ladder in a bookshop. __

Connor MacLeod? Got 'killed' by the Kurgan. Adam Pierson? Fell off a ladder. Thank god he was_ Immortal. _All it had taken for Don resign himself to Adam's Immortality had been the realization that without that Immortality, Adam would be dead. After that, the conflict between protecting his _- friend? adopted son?_ - and keeping his oath had become much less important. 

Shaking his head, Don put aside the last of the chronicles he'd been looking through, and reached for his coffee only to find that it had gone cold hours earlier. Making a face, he pushed it aside, and had just finished ordering a whiskey and soda from Joe's newest bartender when someone dropped heavily onto the stool next to him. It was Adam, and he looked thoroughly irritated.

"Long day?" Don asked.

"You have no idea," Adam said flatly. The bartender -- Don couldn't remember the guy's name to save his life -- had moved on, but Joe had seen Adam's entrance and made his way over to them.

"How'd it go?" he asked. 

"Oh, it was lovely," Adam said sarcastically. "I love running three miles in the freezing cold, especially when it's followed by two hours of the most inane drills ever conceived by man." 

"That bad, huh?" Joe asked sympathetically, handing him a beer. Adam took it gratefully.

"As I told Don, you have _no idea_."

"I might," Joe said cheerfully. "Remember, I went through boot camp. I know all about inane drills."

"You might at that," Adam said, slightly appeased. He took a long swallow of beer and sighed. "That's better."

"At least you know he's taking it seriously," Don said, trying to mollify him further.

"He certainly is," Adam said bitterly. He took another sip of beer. "It probably wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the Immortal peanut gallery that apparently comes complimentary with the lessons."

"Immortal peanut gallery?" Don raised his eyebrows.

"Fitzcairn and Amanda." Adam's tone spoke volumes. "Both of whom have apparently decided that MacLeod will wither and die without their company."

"Both of them?" Joe chuckled. "That must be interesting."

"That's an understatement," Adam muttered into his beer. He slanted a look sideways at both of them, and there was a wicked gleam in his eyes. "It got even more interesting when Fitzcairn figured out that I'm a Watcher."

"What?!" Joe and Don exclaimed in unison. Adam was laughing.

"Oh, your _faces_," he gasped. "I needed that."

"Not funny, Adam," Joe growled. Adam smirked.

"Oh, it's not a problem. To hear him tell it, he's known about us for centuries." 

"How?" Don demanded.

Adam's mouth twitched. "Guess."

"_Adam_," Joe said warningly.

"Spoilsport," Adam accused. "If you must know, the third time he noticed the tattoo on a woman he'd taken to bed, he started asking questions."

"You're kidding," Don said.

"Nope," Adam laughed. "MacLeod and Amanda had much the same reaction."

Joe was shaking his head and beginning to chuckle. "That old goat. Well, if he hasn't told anyone by now, he probably isn't going to."

"I had basically the same reaction," Adam said. "Though he did take it upon himself to fill in Amanda and MacLeod -- the latter of whom is more than likely about to have a moral crisis about the danger I'm in. I wouldn't be surprised if he came barging in here to ensure my safety." He seemed to notice that Don and Joe were looking at him oddly, and shrugged. "I'm just saying, it could happen.:

"Let's hope not," Joe said. "It's going to be tricky enough keeping Fitz's Watcher from reporting you. At least Ryan Painter is still in jail." Painter was Amanda's Watcher, and had gotten himself arrested by Interpol while trying to take pictures of her latest escapade.

"He won't report me," Adam waved a hand dismissively. "He's about as interested in his job as Fitzcairn is in the Game."

* * *

**December 20, 1986 -- 1.15 a.m.**

"You," Darius said, trying to hold back a smile, "have been hoist on your own petard, old friend." Methos pulled a face that reminded Darius of some of the more unruly children in his congregation. 

"I don't think your god approves of _schadenfreude_, priest."

"We are all of us sinners," Darius said complacently. Methos scowled and reached for the wine. Darius got to it first. "Why don't you walk away?" he asked. "You've done it before, and in much less dangerous situations."

"Timing," Methos said, reclaiming the wine and refreshing his glass. "Sometime in the next ten or fifteen years, the Watchers are going to make the switch to computerized archives. I've been around long enough that I can spot a coming trend, and this one's going to be unavoidable. If I can get a hand in the design of the program, I'll be able to sneak back into the archives for as long as they're computerized -- and I won't have to bother with sneaking back into the Watchers." He sighed. "Besides, if I disappeared now, Salzer and Dawson would hunt me to the ends of the earth."

"I see," Darius said. He lifted an eyebrow. "And of course it has nothing to do with not wanting to worry two people who care about you."

"Of course," Methos said.

"Nothing at all."

"You said it." 

Darius looked at him with no small amount of amusement. "You old fraud," he said fondly. 

Methos swore at him in barracks-room Latin, and drained his wineglass.

"Duncan MacLeod came to see me today," Darius said. Methos rolled his eyes. "He was asking about the Watchers," Darius continued.

"What did you tell him?"

"What they are. What they do. Nothing more."

"Did he go away satisfied?"

"Hard to say. He's very worried about you."

"Wonderful," Methos said. "Just bloody wonderful."

* * *

Author's Notes: Thanks awfully to everyone who took the time to leave a review. This is unbeta'd, so please forgive any mistakes.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

December 20, 1986

Despite a promise to be at the barge by four o'clock, it was nearly half-past by the time Adam showed up. Duncan was in the middle of switching the laundry when he felt the warning of the lad's presence along the back of his neck, and he greeted his tardy student at the door with a drawn sword and a reproving frown.

"I'm sorry," Adam said breathlessly, his eyes widening when he saw the blade in Duncan's hand. His dark hair was windblown, and his cheekbones were flushed with a combination of cold and exertion. The coat Duncan had given him yesterday -- fitted to hold a sword -- hung loosely on his slender frame. "Class ran over, and I couldn't get away."

Duncan stepped back and Adam brushed by him, heading straight for the couch, onto which he dropped with a heavy sigh.

"Professor Michaud gave a three hour lecture on the impact of the Trojan War on the surrounding cultures of the time period," he said, propping his booted feet up on Duncan's coffee table. "It was bloody boring, but as it's all going to be on the exam..." He gave a non-committal shrug. Duncan crossed the room and scooped Adam's boots off the coffee table, dropping them back on the floor with a thud. Adam gave him a mildly indignant look.

"I've been waiting for you for half an hour," Duncan pointed out. "I thought something might have happened to you. You've got all the time in the world to make up missed classes -- but not if you run into a head hunter."

"Sorry," Adam said again. He didn't look terribly apologetic.

Duncan sighed. "All right then; get changed and let's go running."

"I went this morning," Adam said blandly. Duncan wasn't entirely sure that he was telling the truth, but let it slide in favor of remonstrating with him about the dangers of going out alone. Adam listened with what looked like half an ear, and trailed Duncan reluctantly onto the deck.

"I appreciate the concern," he said after a few minutes, "but I spend most of every day by myself, and no one's challenged me yet."

Duncan narrowed his eyes, exasperated. He'd never had a student who was so blatantly uninterested in his own survival. Oh, Adam said all the right things and paid attention to what he was shown, but it was polite attention, given only because anything else would be rude. There was no fire in him; just a calm, almost academic interest that would do him no good in a duel, and that faded as soon as he got too cold or too tired to continue in comfort. It was beyond frustrating, especially as Adam had the potential to be a formidable fighter. There was no _fear_ in the lad. Wariness, yes, and a healthy dose of mistrust, but no fear. Most young Immortals were terrified of the world they'd been suddenly flung into, but Adam, who knew better than most the sort of sharks he was now swimming with, seemed to view it all as a sort of intellectual exercise.

"You think you can take care of yourself?" Duncan asked mildly. Adam's eyes narrowed, but he didn't seem to see the trap in the question.

"I've been doing it for twenty-four years," he said irritably -- then jerked back, eyes widening and hand diving into his coat as Duncan lunged at him with sword drawn. He wasn't fast enough. Duncan had him against the rail in less than a second, the katana resting against his pale throat -- and _there_ was the fear he was looking for; fear, and more than a little bit of anger.

"Not funny, MacLeod," Adam said tersely, every line of his body taut with apprehension.

"Not meant to be," Duncan said, pressing the edge of the blade into soft flesh, and ignoring the thin trickle of blood that began to run down the younger man's neck. "You're Immortal, not invincible, and if you keep thinking you are, someone is _going_ to take your head."

Adam shuddered, closing his eyes and taking a long breath. "Oh, I see," he said, and when he opened his eyes again the fear had been replaced with fury. "This is an object lesson, then?" The next thing Duncan knew, his feet were flying out from under him, and he smacked into the deck with a force that took his breath away. Adam was standing over him, and for an instant, his face was a stranger's, lit from behind by a rage that was as breathtaking as the fall had been. Then he sighed, and the anger was gone so quickly that Duncan wasn't sure if he'd even seen it in the first place.

"I'm not completely helpless," he said.

"So I see," Duncan said, climbing to his feet. Adam didn't offer him a hand up. "You've been holding out on me. What was that?"

Adam grinned. It made him look years younger. "Just a trick I picked up at school. I got my arse kicked the first few times I tried it." He pulled his sword out of his coat and made a few experimental swings with it. Duncan winced.

"Schoolyard tricks aren't going to do you much good against another Immortal," he said, ignoring the fact that this particular 'schoolyard trick' had been enough to knock him on his ass. The amused gleam in Adam's eyes said it for him. "Do you remember the forms we were going over yesterday?"

* * *

An hour later it had gotten too dark to continue, and Duncan signaled an end to the day's practice. Adam put up his sword and gratefully retreated into the warmth of the barge.

"Did you want to stay for dinner?" Duncan asked. Adam looked surprised, then uncertain.

"I wouldn't want to intrude," he said doubtfully.

"You won't be," Duncan assured him. "Especially if you can cook."

"Sorry," Adam said. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know a spatula from a turkey baster."

"Then you can keep me company," Duncan said. "Would you like a beer?"

Adam smiled. "MacLeod, I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

_Author's Notes__: Big thank yous to lferion and aeronlanart for beta help, and to everyone who's read and/or reviewed thus far._

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"Did you see that?" Don demanded, grabbing Joe's arm with a force that made him momentarily unsteady on his feet. "Sorry -- but did you _see_ that? He knocked MacLeod right on his ass!"

"I saw," Joe said grimly. For one dizzying, terrible moment, he'd thought they were about to watch Adam die; the realization that it was an object lesson had come only a few seconds before Adam's unexpected turning of the tables. The angle had prevented them from seeing Adam's face, but MacLeod's had been telling enough, at least to Joe's eyes: surprise had been followed by a flash of apprehension, and when he'd climbed to his feet, he'd looked at Adam with an expression of startled approbation.

"What's wrong?" Don turned his head, frowning. "It's a good sign; hell, it's the first one we've seen that he's at all interested in surviving."

Joe didn't say anything. Don wasn't a field operative; he never had been, so he didn't have a frame of reference for what they'd just seen. Joe did. There had been a brutal, elegant efficiency to Adam's attack that only training - real training, not whatever basics MacLeod had been drilling him on - could have produced.

The flash of wariness in MacLeod's face had also spoken volumes. For a brief moment he'd seemed to see Adam as a threat, and that was a lot more telling than his later acceptance of Adam's explanation. MacLeod, after all, was basically a trusting guy -- and he'd also been on the receiving end of what Adam had done to him; hadn't been in a position to see the clean, practiced movements with which he'd been taken down.

"Joe?" Don persisted. Down on the barge, Adam was swinging his sword around just a little too clumsily.

"He's been playing us," Joe muttered, appalled.

"What?" Don turned to look at him, binoculars still halfway to his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Adam. He's been playing us." Joe shook his head, still not quite able to believe it. Adam was -- he was _Adam, _awkward and sarcastic and far too bright, the kid who'd flunked out of all of his basic surveillance classes because he'd been too busy thinking about some trick of Sumerian grammar and who'd filled in behind the bar all last summer while the regular bartender had been home with her new baby. He wouldn't have believed it -- but he'd seen it with his own eyes, and _Adam_ shouldn't have been able to do anything about a sword at his throat. "This whole time. Jesus _Christ_!" He slammed a fist into the bridge railing.

"Joe!" Don grabbed his hand, face urgent with concern. "What do you mean, he's been playing us?"

"I mean," Joe said, "that he's not a new Immortal. No new Immortal could have taken MacLeod out like that; not with a sword to his neck." He scowled, disgusted with himself for having been taken in so easily. Don at least had the excuse of being a researcher; he, on the other hand, had spent the better part of twenty years in the field. To have missed an Immortal hiding right under his nose was galling, and it didn't help much to think that everyone else had been tricked as well.

"You can't be serious," Don was saying. "So he knocked MacLeod down; so what?"

"So I know the difference between a lucky break and a deliberate, trained attack." Joe could feel the headache starting to form behind his eyes, a headache that the cold would only make worse. "That was definitely the latter."

"You're wrong," Don insisted. "I've known him for two years, Joe! I think I'd have noticed something by now."

"Don -- " Joe sighed. His friend had practically adopted Adam. Pressing the issue would offend him in more ways than one; his pride would be as injured as anything else. Joe could sympathize. "I know what I saw. So did MacLeod - did you see his face? He was worried for a minute."

"He's not worried now," Don said, gesturing to where Adam and MacLeod were going through a series of slow passes. "I think your brother-in-law might be rubbing off on you."

Joe took a deep breath. Don hadn't meant to be offensive. For all of his brilliance, he could be remarkably insensitive when it came to the subtleties of human interaction -- unlike Adam, whose naivete disguised a surprising ability to understand, if not always empathize with, almost everybody.

"You can think whatever you want," he said carefully. His tone of voice was enough to clue Don in to the fact that he'd crossed a line; the other man winced and opened his mouth, presumably to apologize. Joe rolled over him; Don wasn't going to like what he was about to hear, and it was best to get it out while he was still feeling guilty. "I have to talk to him anyway."

"That's it?" Don asked, apology forgotten in his concern for Adam. "You're not going to say anything to HQ, are you?"

"Not until I've talked to him," Joe said, and wouldn't promise anything more, no matter how Don pressed him.

* * *

MacLeod was relatively quiet during dinner, for which Methos was grateful. He'd come very close to slipping out from behind Adam Pierson's mask earlier, and it still felt a little tight. Only the Highlander's own innate truthfulness had prevented what could have been a truly uncomfortable moment. MacLeod did not lie, and so he assumed that others told the truth until it was proven otherwise. 

The man was foolish, infuriating, and horrifyingly tempting. The desire to _let_ Adam Pierson fall away, to show the Highlander some of what lay beneath the disguise and to interact with him on an equal footing, was shockingly strong. He was glad to have some time to slip back into Adam's traces.

"It's very good," Methos said, after a few mouthfuls of pasta. The smile that the Highlander gave him was as brilliant and uncomplicated as sunlight after long darkness, and almost as painful.

"Thank you." MacLeod reached for his wine-glass. "You know, I can teach you to cook as well as to fight, if you like."

Methos was tempted. Worse, he was tempted to offer lessons in return: old dishes that had been forgotten generations ago, things that only he remembered. Instead, he laughed.

"I'm afraid that microwaving a tin of whatever's to hand is about as far as I get," he said ruefully.

"That'll get pretty old after a couple of centuries," MacLeod warned. The humour in his dark eyes and the easy curve of his mouth tugged at something in Methos' chest. "I'll show you a few things tomorrow. It's not hard."

_Oh, Darius, I am going to have your hide. You should have warned me about this, old friend_, Methos thought, while Adam Pierson nodded his acquiescence.

After dinner he helped MacLeod with the dishes, because it was the sort of thing that Adam Pierson would do. He hadn't counted on the size of the Highlander's kitchen, which forced them to stand so close they were almost touching. Methos could feel MacLeod beside him, his solid presence seeming to almost radiate warmth, and found himself watching the man's strong, broad hands as they moved gently over the dishes.

"No dishwasher?" Methos asked. He had one in his flat, and thought it one of the miracles of the modern age.

"I've got two," MacLeod said, gesturing between himself and Methos with one hand before passing the latter a freshly-washed plate. "There's a dishtowel hanging on the oven," he said, "and the cabinets are fairly easy to find things in." As Methos took the dish from him, their fingers brushed, MacLeod's touch radiating up his arm and down his spine like a low-grade electric shock, and he had to tighten his grip to keep from dropping the plate. Fortunately, MacLeod didn't seem to have noticed; he went back to the dishes without commenting.

There weren't many dishes to wash, but it took long enough that every nerve in Methos' body was thrumming by the time they'd finished. The casual brushes of MacLeod's hands, shoulders, arms, against his own had left him almost shaking with a combination of desire and horror. This was so much worse than the temptation to tell the man the truth. It had been fifty years since he'd wanted someone so badly; since his body had responded with such unthinking eagerness to such unintentional contact. The feel of MacLeod's hands, wet and soapy and callus-rough, sent shivers chasing themselves over his skin, and when the man offered him a brandy afterwards, it was all he could do to say no. He headed out into Paris' rain-wet streets, pulling his coat close against a cold wind that snatched his breath away almost as thoroughly as MacLeod had done.

By the time he got to _Le Blues Bar_ it was nearly nine o'clock, and the desire to throw off Adam Pierson was like an itch under his skin. He ducked in through the door, still hugging his coat tight around him and glad to be out of the cold -- and was immediately confronted by a tight-faced Joe Dawson.

"You," he said flatly. "Into the office."

"Joe?" Methos asked, projecting harmless innocence for all he was worth. Joe had been irritated with him before, but canny as he was, he'd always calmed down a little when faced with Adam's earnestness. This time, though, his eyes got harder instead of softer, and he jabbed an accusatory finger at Methos' chest.

"Don't you even start." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Get in there."

Methos did as he was told, careful to keep his shoulders hunched and his posture defensive. All the while, his heart was pounding. The irritants of playing Adam Pierson had been forgotten in the sudden necessity of doing so. He could only think of one reason for Joe to be so upset, and there was no way this was going to go well. A Watcher who suddenly turned up Immortal was one thing; an Immortal who'd infiltrated the Watchers was quite another, and that 'don't even start' had had ominous undertones.

Joe followed him into the office and closed the door behind them quietly before turning around to face him. The man's expression was still cold and distant, but there was something in his eyes that made Methos think that he was as afraid as he was angry. A glance at the tense set of his shoulders confirmed it.

"What the hell's going on?" Methos demanded, careful to be just as indignant and as rattled as Adam would be, and no more. "Joe - "

"I told you not to start that shit with me," Joe snapped. "I was watching your training session with MacLeod today, and while he still might be buying your little act, I'm not any more. Where did you learn to knock someone like the Highlander on his ass?"

"I didn't exactly have an easy time of it growing up," Methos snapped. "So I learned a few tricks in the schoolyard; what of it?"

"There's no way you took down Duncan MacLeod with a trick you learned on the playground."

"It was a simple heel lock, Joe. You were watching; you should have bloody well seen it." Methos took a deep breath. The look of mingled betrayal and anger on Joe's face hurt far, far more than it should have, and as a result, the edge in his own voice was fast approaching a sharpness that was not at all Adam Pierson's.

"I saw it all right," Joe said coldly. "And you must think I'm an idiot if you're trying to use an excuse like that. I _saw_ how fast you moved -- or did you want to tell me you picked that up on the playground, too?"

The damnable thing was that he had moved too fast. One minute he'd been lying happily to Duncan about his age; the next there'd been a sword at his throat, and he'd been fighting not only five thousand years' worth of reflex, but his own automatic and probably inappropriate reaction to the sensation of razor-sharp steel on his too-vulnerable neck. Knocking the Highlander on his arse had been pure instinct, an act of self-preservation in more ways than one, and he'd moved faster and better than Adam Pierson had any right to do. It had been instinct and it had been sloppy, and Joe Dawson had well and truly caught him.

"I thought you weren't going to watch my training sessions." When in doubt, attack. Unfortunately, Joe was smarter than that.

"I said I wasn't going to _report_ your training sessions."

"Don't play semantics with me," Methos snapped, still attempting to deflect the conversation. This was _not_ a part of his plans.

"Nice try," Joe said, and his eyes were rock-hard again. "Why did you infiltrate the Watchers, Adam? Are you hunting MacLeod, Methos, or just anyone unfortunate enough to get in your way?"

"Infiltrate the -- who said anything about infiltrating? How the hell was I supposed to know -"

Joe cut him off by slashing one hand through the air.

"Don't you do it. Don't you dare open your mouth and lie to me again. I've been sticking my neck out for you, and I'm still sticking my neck out for you, and the least you owe me is the truth. How long have you been Immortal, Adam? Two centuries? Three?"

"Try fifty," Methos said, stung beyond caution by the raw anger in Joe's voice, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He closed his eyes, appalled, as the silence stretched itself out between them.

* * *

_Author's Notes: First, my thanks to **lferion**, **marauderswolf**, and **morgynlerific** for beta-reading this chapter for me. Any remaining mistakes are due to my own stubbornness. **lferion** is in particular responsible for the dishwashing bit._

_Thanks also to everyone who's taken the time to read and review thus far. I apologize for the cliff-hanger at the end; however, the next update won't take nearly as long, so that will hopefully make up for it. As always, feedback is love. _


	10. Chapter 9 gen version

**Chapter Nine**  
_(gen version)_

"Did you see that?" Don demanded, grabbing Joe's arm with a force that made him momentarily unsteady on his feet. "Sorry -- but did you _see_ that? He knocked MacLeod right on his ass!"

"I saw," Joe said grimly. For one dizzying, terrible moment, he'd thought they were about to watch Adam die; the realization that it was an object lesson had come only a few seconds before Adam's unexpected turning of the tables. The angle had prevented them from seeing Adam's face, but MacLeod's had been telling enough, at least to Joe's eyes: surprise had been followed by a flash of apprehension, and when he'd climbed to his feet, he'd looked at Adam with an expression of startled approbation.

"What's wrong?" Don turned his head, frowning. "It's a good sign; hell, it's the first one we've seen that he's at all interested in surviving."

Joe didn't say anything. Don wasn't a field operative; he never had been, so he didn't have a frame of reference for what they'd just seen. Joe did. There had been a brutal, elegant efficiency to Adam's attack that only training - real training, not whatever basics MacLeod had been drilling him on - could have produced.

The flash of wariness in MacLeod's face had also spoken volumes. For a brief moment he'd seemed to see Adam as a threat, and that was a lot more telling than his later acceptance of Adam's explanation. MacLeod, after all, was basically a trusting guy -- and he'd also been on the receiving end of what Adam had done to him; hadn't been in a position to see the clean, practiced movements with which he'd been taken down.

"Joe?" Don persisted. Down on the barge, Adam was swinging his sword around just a little too clumsily.

"He's been playing us," Joe muttered, appalled.

"What?" Don turned to look at him, binoculars still halfway to his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Adam. He's been playing us." Joe shook his head, still not quite able to believe it. Adam was -- he was _Adam, _awkward and sarcastic and far too bright, the kid who'd flunked out of all of his basic surveillance classes because he'd been too busy thinking about some trick of Sumerian grammar and who'd filled in behind the bar all last summer while the regular bartender had been home with her new baby. He wouldn't have believed it -- but he'd seen it with his own eyes, and _Adam_ shouldn't have been able to do anything about a sword at his throat. "This whole time. Jesus _Christ_!" He slammed a fist into the bridge railing.

"Joe!" Don grabbed his hand, face urgent with concern. "What do you mean, he's been playing us?"

"I mean," Joe said, "that he's not a new Immortal. No new Immortal could have taken MacLeod out like that; not with a sword to his neck." He scowled, disgusted with himself for having been taken in so easily. Don at least had the excuse of being a researcher; he, on the other hand, had spent the better part of twenty years in the field. To have missed an Immortal hiding right under his nose was galling, and it didn't help much to think that everyone else had been tricked as well.

"You can't be serious," Don was saying. "So he knocked MacLeod down; so what?"

"So I know the difference between a lucky break and a deliberate, trained attack." Joe could feel the headache starting to form behind his eyes, a headache that the cold would only make worse. "That was definitely the latter."

"You're wrong," Don insisted. "I've known him for two years, Joe! I think I'd have noticed something by now."

"Don -- " Joe sighed. His friend had practically adopted Adam. Pressing the issue would offend him in more ways than one; his pride would be as injured as anything else. Joe could sympathize. "I know what I saw. So did MacLeod - did you see his face? He was worried for a minute."

"He's not worried now," Don said, gesturing to where Adam and MacLeod were going through a series of slow passes. "I think your brother-in-law might be rubbing off on you."

Joe took a deep breath. Don hadn't meant to be offensive. For all of his brilliance, he could be remarkably insensitive when it came to the subtleties of human interaction -- unlike Adam, whose naivete disguised a surprising ability to understand, if not always empathize with, almost everybody.

"You can think whatever you want," he said carefully. His tone of voice was enough to clue Don in to the fact that he'd crossed a line; the other man winced and opened his mouth, presumably to apologize. Joe rolled over him; Don wasn't going to like what he was about to hear, and it was best to get it out while he was still feeling guilty. "I have to talk to him anyway."

"That's it?" Don asked, apology forgotten in his concern for Adam. "You're not going to say anything to HQ, are you?"

"Not until I've talked to him," Joe said, and wouldn't promise anything more, no matter how Don pressed him.

* * *

MacLeod was relatively quiet during dinner, for which Methos was grateful. He'd come very close to slipping out from behind Adam Pierson's mask earlier, and it still felt a little tight. Only the Highlander's own innate truthfulness had prevented what could have been a truly uncomfortable moment. MacLeod did not lie, and so he assumed that others told the truth until it was proven otherwise. 

The man was foolish, infuriating, and horrifyingly tempting. The desire to _let_ Adam Pierson fall away, to show the Highlander some of what lay beneath the disguise and to interact with him on an equal footing, was shockingly strong. He was glad to have some time to slip back into Adam's traces.

"It's very good," Methos said, after a few mouthfuls of pasta. The smile that the Highlander gave him was as brilliant and uncomplicated as sunlight after long darkness, and almost as painful.

"Thank you." MacLeod reached for his wine-glass. "You know, I can teach you to cook as well as to fight, if you like."

Methos was tempted. Worse, he was tempted to offer lessons in return: old dishes that had been forgotten generations ago, things that only he remembered. Instead, he laughed.

"I'm afraid that microwaving a tin of whatever's to hand is about as far as I get," he said ruefully.

"That'll get pretty old after a couple of centuries," MacLeod warned. The humour in his dark eyes and the easy curve of his mouth tugged at something in Methos' chest. "I'll show you a few things tomorrow. It's not hard."

_Oh, Darius, I am going to have your hide. You should have warned me about this, old friend_, Methos thought, while Adam Pierson nodded his acquiescence.

By the time he got to _Le Blues Bar_ it was nearly nine o'clock, and the desire to throw off Adam Pierson was like an itch under his skin. He ducked in through the door, still hugging his coat tight around him and glad to be out of the cold -- and was immediately confronted by a tight-faced Joe Dawson. 

"You," he said flatly. "Into the office."

"Joe?" Methos asked, projecting harmless innocence for all he was worth. Joe had been irritated with him before, but canny as he was, he'd always calmed down a little when faced with Adam's earnestness. This time, though, his eyes got harder instead of softer, and he jabbed an accusatory finger at Methos' chest.

"Don't you even start." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Get in there."

Methos did as he was told, careful to keep his shoulders hunched and his posture defensive. All the while, his heart was pounding. The irritants of playing Adam Pierson had been forgotten in the sudden necessity of doing so. He could only think of one reason for Joe to be so upset, and there was no way this was going to go well. A Watcher who suddenly turned up Immortal was one thing; an Immortal who'd infiltrated the Watchers was quite another, and that 'don't even start' had had ominous undertones.

Joe followed him into the office and closed the door behind them quietly before turning around to face him. The man's expression was still cold and distant, but there was something in his eyes that made Methos think that he was as afraid as he was angry. A glance at the tense set of his shoulders confirmed it.

"What the hell's going on?" Methos demanded, careful to be just as indignant and as rattled as Adam would be, and no more. "Joe - "

"I told you not to start that shit with me," Joe snapped. "I was watching your training session with MacLeod today, and while he still might be buying your little act, I'm not any more. Where did you learn to knock someone like the Highlander on his ass?"

"I didn't exactly have an easy time of it growing up," Methos snapped. "So I learned a few tricks in the schoolyard; what of it?"

"There's no way you took down Duncan MacLeod with a trick you learned on the playground."

"It was a simple heel lock, Joe. You were watching; you should have bloody well seen it." Methos took a deep breath. The look of mingled betrayal and anger on Joe's face hurt far, far more than it should have, and as a result, the edge in his own voice was fast approaching a sharpness that was not at all Adam Pierson's.

"I saw it all right," Joe said coldly. "And you must think I'm an idiot if you're trying to use an excuse like that. I _saw_ how fast you moved -- or did you want to tell me you picked that up on the playground, too?"

The damnable thing was that he had moved too fast. One minute he'd been lying happily to Duncan about his age; the next there'd been a sword at his throat, and he'd been fighting not only five thousand years' worth of reflex, but his own automatic and probably inappropriate reaction to the sensation of razor-sharp steel on his too-vulnerable neck. Knocking the Highlander on his arse had been pure instinct, an act of self-preservation in more ways than one, and he'd moved faster and better than Adam Pierson had any right to do. It had been instinct and it had been sloppy, and Joe Dawson had well and truly caught him.

"I thought you weren't going to watch my training sessions." When in doubt, attack. Unfortunately, Joe was smarter than that.

"I said I wasn't going to _report_ your training sessions."

"Don't play semantics with me," Methos snapped, still attempting to deflect the conversation. This was _not_ a part of his plans.

"Nice try," Joe said, and his eyes were rock-hard again. "Why did you infiltrate the Watchers, Adam? Are you hunting MacLeod, Methos, or just anyone unfortunate enough to get in your way?"

"Infiltrate the -- who said anything about infiltrating? How the hell was I supposed to know -"

Joe cut him off by slashing one hand through the air.

"Don't you do it. Don't you dare open your mouth and lie to me again. I've been sticking my neck out for you, and I'm still sticking my neck out for you, and the least you owe me is the truth. How long have you been Immortal, Adam? Two centuries? Three?"

"Try fifty," Methos said, stung beyond caution by the raw anger in Joe's voice, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He closed his eyes, appalled, as the silence stretched itself out between them.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Because a lot of you have left reviews lamenting the slash aspect of the fic, I've decided to post a gen version of the slashier chapters. Sorry I didn't get to it sooner. _


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

It took one long, dizzying second for Joe to actually realize what he'd heard; then there was a moment of incredulity in which he couldn't make himself _believe_ it. It was Adam's expression that did it; he looked appalled and sick and nothing like himself, and his eyes, when he finally met Joe's gaze, were almost a stranger's, and heavy with the weight of years.

"_Shit_," Joe said feelingly. Disbelief was no longer an option. All sorts of little incongruities were slotting neatly into place - _ streak of unconscious and manipulative arrogance my ass_ - and he could see a whole plethora of complications unfolding, none of which he'd considered when planning this little meeting. Adam - _Methos_ - winced.

"I don't suppose you'll let me pass that last comment off as a joke?" he asked.

Joe couldn't quite hold back his laugher. "Some joke." He ran a hand over his face, trying to put his thoughts together. "I need a drink." He looked over at Adam. "You want one?"

"God, yes," Adam said. He went unerringly for the bottle of good whiskey that Joe kept tucked away in the bottom drawer of his desk, swiped two glasses from the cabinet over the desk, and poured them both a generous serving. Joe watched him, bemused by the sudden and total absence of his habitual clumsiness. Instead, his movements were all swift economy, though when he sank into one of the chairs it was with his usual sprawl. Joe sat down heavily next to him and accepted the proffered glass. The whiskey burned going down, and was further proof that this wasn't some sort of bizzare dream.

"How?" he managed, after another sip of whiskey. "Why?! Do you have any idea how dangerous it is?" The sudden flicker of amusement in Adam's eyes made him feel stupid. The man was five thousand years old, for god's sake; there was no reason for Joe to still feel so protective. Nevertheless, the thought of seeing him exposed was almost nauseating, and Joe's reaction had nothing to do with his own precarious situation. Ignoring the burn of embarrassment, he raised both eyebrows, waiting for an answer. Adam had the grace to look slightly ashamed of himself.

"It's a good place to hide. No one would ever expect to find me researching myself." He shrugged apologetically. "It's also a sterling way to keep track of other Immortals."

"Are you hunting?" Joe asked bluntly. His instincts said otherwise; then again, he'd had _Methos_ right in front of him for two years and hadn't noticed a thing. He planned on second-guessing his instincts for the foreseeable future.

"No." Adam sounded like he was being honest -- but then, if there was anything Joe did know about the man it was that he was an expert liar. Something of Joe's doubts must have been visible in his face, because Adam put down his glass and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Joseph. I'm not hunting." The touch was startling in and of itself. With the exception of handshakes, Adam made physical contact with others only rarely. Now Joe found himself wondering if that characteristic were one inherent to Methos, or if it was something he'd adopted when he'd decided to join the Watchers, and it neatly hammered home the reminder that Joe actually knew next to nothing about a man he'd considered a friend. Still, Adam's eyes were serious, his expression sincere, and Joe very much wanted to trust him; to see if he couldn't build the sort of friendship with Methos that he'd had with Adam Pierson. He realized that he was nodding in acceptance, and didn't miss the small flash of relief that passed over Adam's face.

"Does MacLeod know?" He was fairly sure he already knew the answer to that one, but couldn't resist asking.

"_No_," Adam was visibly appalled. "Christ, that's all I need. He'd either challenge me on the spot or decide to wrap me up in cotton wool; I'm not sure which."

"The latter," Joe said, certain of it. MacLeod might be annoyed by the masquerade, but he would also understand the need for it. He was also young enough -- in Immortal terms -- to think Methos a creature of legend. "Finding Methos -- you -- would be like finding the Holy Grail."

Suddenly it hit Joe like a blow to the chest, nearly taking his breath away. He _had_ found Methos. He was sharing a drink with the world's oldest and most elusive Immortal: five thousand years of living history was only an arm's length away. He reached out and drained his glass, then poured himself another. Adam was regarding him with an expression of mingled amusement and annoyance.

"I'm just a guy, Joe," he said. "Really."

"No pearls of wisdom?" Joe asked.

"Don't stick a fork in an electric socket," Adam offered.

"Yeah, thanks. I'll be sure to remember that one," Joe said dryly. Adam grinned, and for a second all Joe could see was the graduate student he'd thought he knew, young and shy and impossibly brilliant. "What the hell are we going to do?" he asked, after another swallow of whiskey.

The suddenly knife-sharp gleam of Adam's eyes was enough to make Joe wonder all over again at his failure to have spotted the man in the first place.

"We?"

Joe met his gaze squarely. "Yeah. We. As in, you and I." At the inquisitorial lift of Adam's eyebrow, he scowled. "The way I see it, I've got two choices. I can turn you in, or I can look the other way. And the first one isn't really an option." Not with the current of paranoia running so strongly through the entire organization. "You could have picked a better time for your little masquerade."

Adam shrugged. "I didn't expect the political climate to be quite so hostile."

"You could have gotten out when you realized what things were like," Joe pointed out. "Why stay?"

Adam sighed, a reluctant exhalation of breath. "I need an Immortal identity." He swirled the remnants of his drink around in the glass, watching the liquid as it sloshed back and forth before shrugging and putting it down. "I can't avoid confrontation forever, no matter how well I hide. The world's gotten too small. Eventually someone -- Watcher or Immortal, it doesn't really matter -- is going to get curious."

"I can see keeping your identity from other Immortals -- but why do you care if _we_ know?" Joe paused. "Well, before you pulled this stunt, anyway."

"Fitzcairn and I are hardly unique in our discovery of the Watchers," Adam said, with some asperity. "I'm not even the only infiltrator in your history." He frowned thoughtfully. "Though I am the only one you have at present."

"Good to know," Joe said dryly, and tipped back the rest of his whiskey.

* * *

"Did you talk to Adam?"

Joe looked up from last night's accounts. "Good to see you, too."

Don didn't look the least bit ashamed of himself. "Did you talk to him?"

"Yes." Joe forced himself to meet Don's eyes. He hated the thought of lying to the man, and to lie to him about what was in essence his life's work... "You were right; I was being paranoid."

Don refrained from any version of 'I told you so', which was fortunate; Joe wasn't sure that his nerves would stand it. Instead he nodded once in apparent satisfaction before settling into the other chair with his usual stack of papers.

"Is he coming in today?"

"After he gets out of class." The image of Methos sitting through his regimen of history courses was both amusing and somewhat mind-boggling, and went a long way towards explaining Adam Pierson's reputation for being a difficult student. "Were you going to talk to him too?"

"I wasn't planning on it." Don looked up, frowning. "Do you think I should?" He narrowed his eyes. "You weren't harsh with him, were you?"

"No," Joe said, not lifting his eyes from the papers in front of him. He could feel Don's eyes on him for a long moment afterwards, but whatever the other Watcher had been planning on saying was cut off by the opening door.

One look at the figure silhouetted in the bright winter sunlight was enough to shove any worries about deceiving Don to the bottom of a very, very long list. Forcing his hands to unknot themselves, Joe summoned up the most genuine fake smile in his repertoire and aimed it at his brother-in-law.

"Hey, James. When did you get into town?"

* * *

The utter lack of anything (or anyone) worth doing in his hotel had driven Fitz out into the streets of Paris in search of entertainment. Amanda had vanished who-knew-where to do who-knew-what, and though he had been tempted to sulk over not being invited, he had in the end decided that the (likely) resultant jail sentence would have kept him from going anyway. MacLeod had been like a bear with a sore tooth since he'd taken young Adam Pierson under his protection, and as Fitz wasn't in the mood for another ten rounds of Scottish agonizing over whether or not to warn the Watchers to behave themselves, the barge had been crossed off of his list of places to visit.

Instead, he found himself wandering through Montparnasse, idly watching the passers-by, and taking the time to look more closely at several of the prettier girls he saw. One, a particularly fetching redhead, smiled invitingly at him, but he let her pass with a sigh of regret when she turned to take the arm of a blond young man in artist's black. The cafe at the end of the street, however, was nearly as inviting as the redhead. The music spilling from it was an old gypsy tune he hadn't heard in decades, and he found himself humming it as he made his way across the terrace to the door.

The presence of another Immortal crawled up the back of his neck as soon as he touched the handle. For a moment, he considered walking away -- bored or no, this wasn't the sort of excitement he was looking for -- but the hope that whoever it was simply wanted a drink and a chance to listen to some music won the day, and he went inside still humming to himself. The song wound to an end as he came in, and there was a scattering of applause as he looked over the crowd.

The other Immortal was easy enough to spot. Despite the lad's retiring personality, Adam Pierson's profile was damn near unmistakable. He looked up as Fitz approached, eyes wide and panicked until he saw Fitz in turn; then his shoulders slumped in visible relief. By the time Fitz made it to his table, relief had given way to a sheepishness that seemed to indicate that the lad had realized just how foolish his trip to the cafe had been.

"Pierson," Fitz said gravely, taking the chair opposite from him. Babysitting a new Immortal hadn't been on his list of desired activities for the evening; still, if anything happened to the lad, he'd never be able to face MacLeod again. Pierson made a sour face and put aside the book on the table in front of him.

"Fitzcairn."

Suppressing an incredulous look -- because _really_, who brought a _book_ to the cafes on Montparnasse? -- Fitz raised an eyebrow.

"Is MacLeod about?" He already knew the answer, of course; still, it was worth asking, if only to see Pierson look sheepish again.

"As far as I know, he's at the barge. I needed some fresh air and a decent beer."

"So you decided to go wandering around by yourself?" Fitz asked, and shook his head. "Not wise, laddie. I can understand the need to get away from MacLeod, but - Q.E.D.," he gestured at his own chest, "- there are far too many Immortals in Paris for you to be safely wandering about on your own. You're damned lucky I spotted you first."

Pierson scowled into his beer. "I'm not a child."

"You are in Immortal terms," Fitz said, flagging down the barmaid. "A beer, love, and another for my young apprentice." Pierson's expression was a delightful combination of appalled and incredulous.

"You'd better be paying," he said, once the barmaid had returned with their drinks.

"Of course," Fitz said. He'd picked Duncan's pocket for a hundred francs only three days ago.

"I really don't need a babysitter," Pierson tried again. Fitz shrugged.

"It's not really a topic for debate, old boy. If I wander off and you go and get yourself killed, I'll never hear the end of it. Ever. Which, as you'll eventually come to realize, takes on a whole new meaning when you're Immortal."

Pierson rolled his eyes. Judging by the collection of empties littering the table, he was probably more than a little drunk, so Fitz decided to ignore the blatant rudeness.

"I'm in _public_, Fitzcairn," he said. "No one's going to be stupid enough to start something in a crowd of mortals."

"The Kurgan would have," Fitz pointed out.

"The Kurgan is _dead_," Pierson retorted, and plunked his empty down decisively on the table before reaching for the one the barmaid had just brought. The reminder of the Kurgan's death was reason enough in Fitz's opinion for a drink -- even a toast -- and he said as much, clinking his beer against Pierson's in a move that won him the evening's first genuine smile from the lad.

"Darts?" he offered, after a few moments' contemplative silence on both their parts that Fitz was determined to end before it got maudlin. Pierson was too young for such brooding, and he himself was too old. Pierson gave him a startled look -- he'd been eyeing his book longingly -- but then shrugged in compliance.

To Fitz's utter surprise, Pierson won three of the four games they played, and he had his suspicions that the lad had let him win the fourth out of a misguided sense of pity. Either way, it had been a masterful performance, and the games had worked wonders on Pierson himself. By the end of the first he'd been smiling; by the end of the fourth, he'd been actually laughing at his own more outrageous misses. When Fitz collected their tab, several of the patrons paused in their conversations to shout farewells to both of them.

Once out in the winter darkness, they both pulled their coats close around them, trying to fend off the wind that sliced down the streets like a knife, bringing swirls of loose snow with it.

"Where do you live, then?" Fitz asked. "I'll walk you home."

Pierson gave him a look in which deep suspicion was clearly visible. Fitz rolled his eyes.

"Do I need to repeat my earlier speech about the Highlander and his methods of holding people accountable for their actions?" he asked, stomping his feet a little to keep warm. "Come on, lad, it's bloody cold out. Don't be an arse."

"Fine." Pierson gave in with bad grace, heaving a truly spectacular sigh of irritation, and headed down the snow-covered street in the direction of the Latin Quarter.

Fitz rolled his eyes again, and followed after him.

"Children," he muttered.

They'd gone less than ten blocks when Pierson stiffened beside him like a hunting dog going to point. He felt the buzz a split second later; a moment after that, a bulky figure in a dark coat stepped out of the cross-alley in front of them.

"Hugh Fitzcairn," Fitz said quickly, before the stranger could get any funny ideas about Pierson. Out of the corner of his mouth, he muttered, "See? This is why you need someone with you."

"Ranulf Krazinsky," the stranger said, in a heavily-accented voice. The name was vaguely familiar, but as Fitz wasn't the Immortal Joan Rivers that Duncan was, he couldn't place it.

"We're in _public_, for God's sake," Pierson said sharply. He'd taken a step back under the overhang of a shop door, and his face had been thrown into shadow.

"Who are you, then?" Krazinsky asked.

"Too smart to make a spectacle of myself."

"If I say you'll fight me, little man," Krazinsky said, starting towards Pierson,"you'll --"

Fitz stepped coolly between the two of them, stopping Krazinsky by the simple expedient of twisting his sword-cane out to reveal the first six inches of steel. The metal caught the light from the closest streetlight and threw it back, gleaming, towards the sky.

"You'll be fighting _me_," Fitz said evenly.

"Your student, is he?" Krazinsky asked. "If you survive this, you should teach him to mind his tongue -- or someone might cut it out one of these days."

"He's incorrigible," Fitz said lightly. "I've tried everything - floggings, whippings, forcing him to listen to Ronald Reagan making foreign policy speeches -- nothing works." Internally, he was snarling curses at Pierson, ordering the idiot boy to be quiet. If he let MacLeod's student get killed, even Immortal life wouldn't be worth living.

"Then maybe I'll train him after I kill you," Krazinsky said, grinning nastily. "The spirited ones do tend to last longer."

Pierson muttered something that sounded like 'you have no idea', but Fitz didn't quite catch it, because Krazinsky was an absolute maniac and was already swinging at him. The man's blade was two-handed and heavy, but he was graceful with it, and for the first five passes it was all Fitz could do to keep backing up, luring the man into the alley where they would at least be out of sight from the street.

Pierson jerked out of the way, then followed them, open-mouthed. Fitz wanted to yell at him to get out of there, but couldn't spare the breath; Krazinsky was big and fast, and not the sort of opponent one could stop paying attention to, even for an instant. Fitz took a wicked cut to his left arm and a second to his calf before he got a feel for the man's rhythm; then he realized that what he'd taken for grace was nothing but aggression, and the speed was flashy but had no purpose behind it. After that, it took four passes before Krazinsky was limping, two more before he'd gone down, curling around Fitz's sword. Fitz didn't wait, didn't pause, just pulled the sword out of Krazinsky's belly and went for the beheading stroke, dropping him into a puddle of ice and blood. In the gasping, momentary pause before the lightning, Fitz managed enough breath to warn Pierson away; then the Quickening struck, and it was all he could do to hold on while fire and ecstasy washed the world away.

He came to himself on what felt like the icy roadway; at least, his back was cold and his head ached and there was a sharp, vicious pain in his neck that he felt positive he ought to complain about. A vaguely familiar voice, tense with worry, was talking somewhere off to his left.

"Nothing happened, all right? I'm fine. Fitzcairn isn't, though. I think he fractured his skull."

"He'll be fine." Those ruthless tones -- those were familiar. Only one person could convey such a brutal and total lack of sympathy for his _previously life-threatening injuries_.

"Hello, MacLeod," Fitz mumbled -- or rather, tried to mumble. The Highlander's scowling visage loomed into his line of sight.

"Just_ wait_ until your head heals," he said darkly.

* * *

_Author's Notes__: All hail lferion, beta-reader extraordinaire! Also -- I humbly apologize for the length of time between updates, especially since the last chapter ended with a cliffhanger. The next chapter will be much shorter in coming, I promise._

_Feedback is lovingly cherished and then fed to the plotbunnies. _


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

By the time they got back to the barge, the worst edge of Duncan's anger had cooled. All it took, though, was one look at Fitz, whose blond curls were matted to the side of his head and stained with blood, and at Adam, who was pale and visibly shaken, to bring his irritation roaring back to the forefront.

"Damn it, Fitz," he finally demanded, "what the hell were you thinking?"

"Me?" Fitz gave him a sour look from beneath the damp washcloth he was using to clean the blood out of his hair. "It was your damned student who was wandering around Montparnasse by himself. I was bringing him home when we ran across my late opponent."

Duncan rounded on Adam, who stopped glaring at Fitz in order to look sheepishly at the floor. His high cheekbones were flushed with embarrassment, but Duncan saw no reason to go easy on him.

"You were out by yourself? Do you realize how dangerous that is?"

"I do now," Adam said, wincing visibly.

"You're lucky Fitz was there," Duncan said pointedly. The realization of just how lucky was enough to make him feel a little sick. "Christ, Adam, if you'd been alone --"

A hard knock at the door cut him off. The three of them exchanged worried glances.

_Police?_ Fitz mouthed. Duncan shrugged, just as whoever it was knocked again. There was no Presence, which made Fitz's theory unpleasantly likely. Squaring his shoulders, he rose and crossed to the door.

The man at the door was the same vaguely familiar one who'd accompanied Adam to the auction -- the Watcher. Duncan had been inclined to be suspicious of all Watchers, but the mortal's face was chalk-white, his mouth set in a grim line. Faced with such obvious distress, Duncan found himself stepping back automatically in unspoken invitation.

The Watcher didn't stand on ceremony, nor did he bother to glance around at the inside of the barge. Rather, his gaze flew straight to Adam, and upon seeing the lad he sagged in visible relief, the colour returning to his face in a rush.

"_Jesus_, Adam!" he exclaimed, and crossed to the sofa, where he sat down heavily, gripping his cane with enough force to turn his knuckles white.

"Joe!" Adam jumped to his feet as quickly as Joe had sat down, his expression a mixture of concern and chagrin. Joe lifted his head and fixed Adam with a glare that froze him in place.

"Don't," he said flatly. "Because as soon as my heart stops pounding, my friend, you and I are going to have words." He blinked, and seemed to suddenly realize where he was. To his credit, his eyes only widened a little, and he turned immediately to Duncan.

"Sorry for the intrusion," he said, extending his hand without rising. "Joe Dawson."

"Duncan MacLeod," Duncan said, taking Dawson's hand without hesitation. The Watcher's obvious concern for Adam, and his fearlessness in hurrying to be sure the lad was safe, were enough to override any lingering suspicions Duncan might have had. "This idiot is Hugh Fitzcairn."

"You have my sincere thanks," Dawson said, taking Fitz's hand in turn. "Adam is a good friend, and I appreciate your looking out for him."

"Don't mention it," Fitz said, trying to wave his other hand airily and failing miserably as the washcloth he was still holding flopped wetly about . "If it weren't for the infinite patience and careful attentions of several of _my_ elders, I wouldn't have seen so much as a century."

"You still need a keeper," Duncan told him. Fitz threw the washcloth at him, and he ducked quickly out of the way.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked Dawson, glad to see the slight smile that Fitz's antics had brought to the man's lips.

"Yes, thank you," Dawson said. "Scotch, if you have it."

Duncan moved to the bar and poured drinks for all of them. As he did, he heard Adam quietly asking Dawson what had happened.

"_You_ happened, you idiot," Dawson snapped. "Krazinsky's Watcher -- remember Alan Reynolds? -- reported an unknown Immortal at that little fight you decided to stand around and watch tonight. He's back at HQ going through the archives with a fine-toothed comb. Unidentified Immortals don't pop up in Paris very often." He paused to take the glass Duncan was offering him. "Thank you."

"How good is the description?" Adam asked, taking his own glass with an absent nod at Duncan.

"Worse than you deserve it to be," Dawson said. "You're still not going anywhere near HQ until Reynolds has been reassigned. His eyes are too damned sharp."

"What about Fitzcairn's Watcher?" Adam raised an eyebrow over the rim of his glass before taking a sip.

"Doing his annual performance review, you lucky bastard," Dawson said. "I came to get you out of here before he figures out where Fitzcairn's gone. It won't take long, so we need to go."

Something had been nagging at Duncan, and it finally resolved itself into a question.

"What about _my_ Watcher?" he frowned. "He hasn't noticed Adam yet?"

Dawson flushed and muttered something inaudible. Adam grinned.

"_Joe's_ your Watcher, MacLeod. I'm not that bloody careless." Despite the harsh words, his eyes were gleaming with amusement. Duncan flushed. He should have realized why Dawson had seemed so familiar -- and if Connor ever found out that he'd been followed about so easily, he'd never hear the end of it.

"All right," Dawson said hurriedly. "That's enough out of you." Adam subsided, but the smile was still playing about the corner of his mouth. "We really do need to leave," Dawson continued. "They're not going to keep Fitz's Watcher all night."

He drained his glass and struggled to his feet, the determined set of his mouth making it clear that assistance was neither needed nor wanted. Adam got up as well, scooping his coat off of the back of the couch as he rose. Duncan wanted to walk them to the car, but Dawson's glare froze him in his tracks. He settled for waiting at the top of the gangplank until they'd gotten into the car and driven away. Shaking his head over the impossibilitites of the current situation, Duncan turned around and went back inside.

* * *

"Apparently when you learned English, you forgot to look up the meaning of the word 'discretion'," Joe growled. Methos tried to look properly chastened, but from the glare Joe sent his way, the effort was wasted. "Drinking with Hugh Fitzcairn! You might as well hire a brass band to march in front of you! Or take out an ad in the newspaper! Fitzcairn means well, but he trails more chaos in his wake than anyone but Cory Raines! You've read his Chronicle; you should know better."

Methos sighed. "I was out by myself, Joseph. Fitz and I merely happened to cross paths, and he insisted on keeping an eye on MacLeod's student. If he hadn't, I'd have dealt with Krazinsky on my own."

"And gotten yourself reported as certainly Immortal rather than possibly," Joe snapped. "_If_ you survived. Krazinsky was damn good."

"I'm better," Methos said shortly. Joe gave him one of those startled looks, as if remembering all over again who he was dealing with. It didn't improve Methos' temper.

"Be that as it may," he continued a moment later, "I meant what I said about staying away from Headquarters until Reynolds is safely reassigned. James is in town."

"Your brother-in-law?" Methos asked sharply, though he was fairly certain of the answer. Joe's nod drew a curse from his lips that hadn't been heard in ten centuries. James Horton was the indirect instigator of a great deal of the anti-Immortal feeling that was currently plaguing the Watchers, and he was dangerously clever. "What's he doing in Paris?"

"De-briefing after the Kurgan's death, and getting reassigned." Joe glanced over at Methos. "The rumour is that he'll be assigned to Darius. Sort of as a respite after having to Watch the Kurgan."

Methos winced. "He won't like that." Methos didn't like it. His late-night visits to Darius would be at an end if Horton became his friend's Watcher, and he would miss them a great deal. There was no doubt in his mind, however, that if Horton discovered Adam Pierson for an Immortal, the results would be very, very messy.

* * *

"Now _that's_ interesting." Long hours spent alone had accustomed Reginald Blake to talking to himself. He'd spent seven years in Moscow for MI-6 before being in the wrong alley at the right time had led him to the kind of secret about which his staid colleagues would never even have dreamed. He'd left them without looking back, and received his tattoo a year later.

Now, standing on a rooftop that conveniently overlooked Duncan MacLeod's barge, Blake was musing over what might, he hoped, be the keys to another set of secrets. Why had James Horton ordered him to follow Duncan MacLeod? And why was Joseph Dawson retrieving Don Salzer's protege from MacLeod's barge in the middle of the night? The latter was unlikely to be connected to the former, though most people would consider that the probable solution. Reggie Blake didn't deal in probable solutions; he dealt in certainties. If Horton had expected either Dawson or Pierson to show up at MacLeod's, Blake would have been assigned to watch one of them.

"No, he wants me to watch you for reasons of his own," Blake murmured to the Highlander, who was watching Pierson and Dawson drive away with a look of deep exasperation on his handsome features. "And I'll find out what they are, believe you me." He was as determined to figure out Horton's motivations as he was to discover what business two Watchers had at an Immortal's home. Oh, Dawson certainly had the balls for it, but he'd been there to retrieve Pierson, and Pierson, for all of his brilliance, had always been useless at anything resembling field-work. He was skinny and awkward and tongue-tied even in front of his fellow Watchers; in short, the last person that Blake would have expected to be fraternizing with an Immortal.

So. Two secrets, possibly related, both of which needed puzzling out. Blake was humming contentedly to himself as he watched MacLeod walk back inside the barge. No one was better than Reggie Blake at finding out what others wished to keep hidden, and he genuinely enjoyed the work. MacLeod would go to bed soon; then it would be off to report to Horton. Dawson and Pierson would be left out of the report, of course. Blake didn't want anyone else interfering with what he was already considering his case, and an official investigation would do just that. No, Dawson and Pierson could keep their secret for now. Blake only wanted to know what it was.

* * *

_Author's Notes__:_ _My thanks to **lferion** for beta-services. Apologies for the delay in posting; real life has been beyond hectic lately. I shall try to do better, I swear. As always, feedback of all kinds is greatly appreciated._


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve  
**  
Adam Pierson's classes were the usual combination of boring and bemusing -- the history they were teaching these days was marginally more accurate than the stuff they had been teaching a few centuries ago, but only marginally -- and he shoveled his books into his bag at the end of his last lesson with a feeling of relief that was only slightly tempered by the knowledge that he had to be at the barge within the hour. The only positive there was that he hadn't the time to stop by _Le Blues Bar_ and get his daily lecture on safety from a pair of old men a mere fraction of his age.

The past two weeks had been almost spectacularly uneventful. No Immortals had popped out of the woodwork; Kranzinsky's Watcher had been reassigned to an Immortal who never left Eastern Europe -- thanks in part to Dawson's string-pulling, Methos was sure. Even Fitzcairn and Amanda had been relatively well-behaved -- for a given value of 'well' -- so of course as as Methos made his way through Paris' foggy, rain-dark streets, he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The metaphorical thud came in the form of Quickening-signature, trailing down the back of his neck and setting the hairs there on end. When the sensation faded a few seconds later, Methos was torn between suspicion and relief. Five seconds later the first emotion won out, as whoever it was came back into range. His eyes narrowed in irritation. He really wasn't in the mood for what was essentially the Immortal equivalent of ringing someone's doorbell and then running off before they opened it.

For a brief moment he gave thought to tracking down the irritant and removing them permanently from the scene. Caution, however, made itself heard, and Methos decided against doing anything but going straight to the barge. Whoever was doing this might well have a Watcher, and he'd been lucky once already where they were concerned. Shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets, Methos put his head down and kept walking.

The idiot stalking him was at least persistent; Methos could grant them that much. They kept slipping in and out of range the entire way to the barge, and by the time he got there, Methos was seriously annoyed. The other's presence faded away as his foot hit the gangplank, bringing MacLeod into range, and he allowed himself to hope that whoever it was had gotten spooked by the Highlander's reputation.

He knocked, tapping out a rhythm that had no particular meaning, but had once been part of the refrain of his favourite song, eight or nine hundred years ago. After a moment, MacLeod opened the door, sword in hand -- just as Methos' stalker decided to step back into range. Looking alarmed rather than murderous was one of the most difficult things Methos had ever done. He managed it -- barely -- and found himself being herded onto the barge by a Highlander who suddenly resembled nothing so much as a mother hen. The other's presence didn't fade away, not this time. Methos suddenly got the uneasy feeling that maybe he'd led whoever-it-was straight to MacLeod; that that had been their goal all along.

"Stay here," MacLeod told him firmly, and Methos bit down the urge to snap at the man. "I'll be right back." The Scot grabbed his coat and slid his sword into it, pulling the garment on as he ducked out the door into the wet, foggy streets. Methos managed not to stare after him open-mouthed, but it was a close-run thing. Had no one ever taught the man the meaning of prudence? Or caution?

_Darius is right; the man definitely needs someone to help temper that overenthusiasm of his._ When he realized what he'd just thought, Methos shook his head to clear it. Adam Pierson had no business trying to rein in his teacher, and Methos had no intention of so exposing himself to MacLeod, no matter what the priest was hoping. Bloody hell, but _he_ hoped the man didn't get himself killed, running off like that after the Gods-know-who.

Fortunately for Methos' nerves, MacLeod came back without ever fully getting out of range himself. He was scowling, his handsome features dark with the same irritation that Methos was hiding so carefully. Adam would be rattled, not annoyed.

"I guess whoever it was got scared away," MacLeod said. Methos almost left it at that; wasn't entirely sure what prompted him to speak up.

"I don't think so." Adam shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot at MacLeod's raised eyebrow. "I think... I think they followed me here from school. I kept feeling someone off and on almost the entire way here."

"What?!" Adam shrank back from the anger in MacLeod's voice, while Methos fought to keep from wincing. If he'd thought himself smothered in cotton wool before... The anxiety in the Highlander's eyes was proof enough of that. "Did you get a look at him?"

Methos shook his head. "No such luck." Then, because Adam would have, "Do you think he's after me specifically, or just anyone who happened along?"

"I don't know." Anyone else would have lied, tried to comfort him. MacLeod was too honest for that, and it made something in Methos' gut twist painfully. "It doesn't matter, though," the Highlander continued. "I'm not going to let him anywhere near you." That made Methos' stomach feel as if he were in freefall, and it only got worse when MacLeod told him, "We'll go back to your flat and pack after we're finished for the day."

"Pack?" Adam's near-panic was audible in the high-pitched tones of his voice. It did a good job of covering Methos' suspicion and reluctance. "Why?"

"You're going to stay here with me for a day or two," MacLeod explained. "Just until I deal with whoever that was, or until he moves on."

"I can't do that!" It was Adam's protest, but Methos agreed with it wholeheartedly, albeit for slightly different reasons. "The Watchers will find out! I'll be toast!" Not to mention the effort that Methos would have to put forth in order to avoid slipping up -- and to avoid succumbing to the very real temptation that was Duncan MacLeod. Taking daily lessons from the man was bad enough. Sharing living quarters with him would take the slow-smouldering desire that nagged at the corners of his mind and put it front and center -- and Methos hated having to resist temptation.

"It'll only be for a couple of days," MacLeod said, clearly doing his best to sound reassuring and immovable all at the same time. "We'll let Dawson know; he can cover for you. He's been doing it for weeks."

"This is different!" Adam protested. MacLeod remained intractable.

"It's for your own protection," he said, in the flat tone that meant that there were no arguments that Adam could employ that would change his mind.

"Wonderful," Methos muttered. The Highlander ignored him.

"Come on, then," he said, standing back up. "We still need to get your lesson in before it gets too dark."

***

"...so I'll be staying at the barge for the foreseeable future," Adam said, throwing an irritated glance over his shoulder at MacLeod, who was standing just out of earshot, pretending to be absorbed by the various decorations Joe had hung on the walls of _Le Blues Bar_ over the years.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Joe asked, though he already knew the answer. Adam had always been fairly easygoing, and Methos was, if possible, even more difficult to faze -- but this time, the man was fairly radiating tension. Adam gave him a scathing glance by way of reply, then relented and shook his head.

"It's a bad idea for any number of reasons," he admitted, lowering his voice even further, "not least of which is that even I find it difficult to be someone else each and every minute of the day. But that's my lookout. I just need you to keep Fitzcairn and Amanda's Watchers away, should either of them decide to pay us a visit."

"I'll do my best," Joe promised. "You still might want to stay inside as much as you can, though."

"Understood." Adam tipped his head to one side. "You haven't heard anything about anyone new in town, have you?"

For a moment, the dissonance was jarring. This was Adam Pierson, Watcher, who had every right to the information -- but it was also Methos, oldest Immortal and -- Joe was beginning to realize -- master manipulator. It was one thing to answer Adam; another thing entirely to answer Methos -- who had spotted his dilemma almost as quickly as had Joe himself, and was now smiling ruefully at him, expression closer to good humour than it had been since he'd arrived.

"Never mind," he said, standing up and sliding his hands into his pockets. "I didn't even think about it before I asked. I'm sorry; that wasn't fair of me."

Perhaps it was deliberate; perhaps Methos had apologised with manipulation aforethought, but Joe didn't think so. He sighed.

"I may be able to find out a few things. I'll call the barge tonight and let you know what I've learned."

The smile he got in return was pure Adam, save for the knowing look in Methos' eyes. "Thanks, Joe."

"Yeah, yeah. Get out of here and go pack, would ya? Get him out of my bar before James decides to stop by." That made Adam wince visibly.

"Good idea." He corralled MacLeod with a tilt of his head, saying his goodbyes en route to the exit; then, in a swirl of coats, the two Immortals were gone. Joe leaned back in his chair and sighed. He'd been breaking his oath for friendship's sake for weeks; it would be hypocritical in the extreme to balk at helping now, when actual lives were at stake.

****

_Notes: First, thanks so much to everyone who's read/reviewed so far...and to everyone who's waited so patiently for this update. I apologize for how long it took to complete, by the way._

_Thanks also to my brilliant beta-readers, marauderswolf and lferion, without whom this chapter would probably have been another three weeks in the writing._

_Finally -- feedback is most excellent. It makes great food for the plot-bunnies._


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